Who are you, and what have you done with Sherlock?
by iamhighfunctioningsochiopathed
Summary: A Sherlolly one-shot by request. Enjoy!


"Garrett, if you do not find her-,"

"It's Greg! You know what, never mind Sherlock. I give up."

"Are you even _trying_ to find her? Your finest officers are at their desk partaking in sugary baked goods!"

"Thursday is doughnut day…"

"I could care less if Thursday was 'come to work dressed like your grandmother' day, Molly is in danger and you're all just _sitting here_!"

"Sherlock, calm down," muttered John, who stood next to him with his arms folded. Sherlock looked down and realized he had broken the pencil in his fist.

"What do you expect us to do? The only thing we have to go on is some photos and-,"

"Photos?" Sherlock interrupted, scrunching his eyebrows together.

"Greg, not a good idea," urged John. Inspector Lestrade put his face in his hands. He had forgotten that he wasn't supposed to show Sherlock.

"What photos?" Sherlock asked menacingly. He didn't like being kept in the dark.

Lestrade sighed heavily, then removed a dirty white envelope from his desk drawer and handed it to Sherlock.

Sherlock ripped the pictures from the envelope and dropped into the chair behind him.

They were various images of hooded men holding Molly by her hair and holding a knife to her throat. There was a list of demands written on the back of each photograph. She looked so terrified, and her cheek was bruised.

"Why, may I ask, weren't these shown to me the minutes they arrived?"

"We didn't want to upset you," John confessed.

"Oh, yeah, did a really good job of that." He snarled, shooting up out of his seat.

"Sherlock, you're too emotionally invested-,"

"INSPECTOR, I SEEM TO BE THE ONLY ONE WHO IS INVESTED AT ALL." He shouted, irises ablaze.

"We're trying our best!" Lestrade shouted back, standing up to face him.

Sherlock studied the photos again. There was no use arguing with dimwits. He didn't have time for this and neither did Molly.

Suddenly a sign on the wall that was half cut off in the background of one photo caught his eye.

"I know where this is," he whispered, eyes darting about as he concocted a plan.

"What?" John inquired, leaning in closer to him.

"I know where this is." He threw the photos down on the desk. "Grayson, get all of your units to Hackey." Sherlock turned on his heel and jogged out.

"MY NAME IS GR-, UGH what's the use?" As instructed, he picked up his phone and ordered all of his available officers to Hackney.

…

Though her head was throbbing and she was in a concussed haze, Molly heard some faint grunts and shouts from outside the room she was being held in. Weakly, she rattled her handcuffs against the pipe that they were attached to.

"Let me go," she squeaked. "Please…"

Molly could vaguely make out a blurry figure in a long coat burst into the room and remove her from her shackles. She fought as hard as she could against the figure, but the blackness of unconsciousness slowly surrounded her as she felt herself being lifted and carried away.

…

"She's got a concussion. She'll need rest for a while but she'll be okay."

"When will she wake up?"

"Could be four hours, could be four days."

Molly heard voices over her as she laid on a comfortable surface. She felt someone take her hand and caress it,

"I should have figured it out sooner. I'm sorry I let them hurt you," one of the voices said.

"Hm," Molly muttered. She was too tired to open her eyes, let alone form words.

"…Molly?" The voice drew nearer, and suddenly she felt hot perpperminty break on her face. "Molly," the voice whispered.

When she found the strength to lift her eyelids, Molly found Sherlock hovering over her face. He smiled from ear to ear.

"Welcome back," he said, caressing her cheek.

"What happened to your lip?" She asked, voice barely above a whisper. "...Are you holding my hand?"

"As a matter of fact, I am."

"…Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock?" She chuckled.

He chuckled, and then kissed her softly. He tasted metallic from his bleeding lip. When he pulled away, Molly was the color of a fire truck and blinking at him like a confused child.

"Glad I got that out of my system," he said.

"Okay, really, where's the real Sherlock?"

"Old Sherlock is gone. New Sherlock realized how daft he was for ever taking you for granted…"

Molly blinked at him some more, then grabbed his collar and pulled him into another kiss.

"You sure do take your sweet time, Sherlock Holmes."

"I know, what on earth was I ever thinking?"


End file.
